


Vice

by JustRamblinOn



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Classic Rock, Drinking, Drug Use, F/M, Grief, Overdose, a little smut but like not a lot, could be AU could be pre series you decide, i made myself sad and decided to share, just a hint of smut really, kinda a song fic, maybe AU- no ZA, yes I tagged angst twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 08:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustRamblinOn/pseuds/JustRamblinOn
Summary: "Yeah, the only thing that I know how to find is another vice." - Miranda Lambert, "Vice"Oh you know, just an angsty little no-zombies flashback story, inspired by "Vice" by Miranda Lambert.





	Vice

The jukebox clicked as the record changed over, an old-school relic in a smokey bar in the ass end of Nowhere, Georgia, where Daryl’d been all his life. Just the kind of place Merle loved and Daryl tolerated dragging his brother’s drunk, stubborn ass out of after the inevitable fight over pool, beer, or women.

The song started playing and Daryl could have slammed his head on the bar and cried. Instead, he eyed the Jack Daniel’s still in his glass- if he was gonna spend half his nights in places like this, he was gonna drink the good stuff, damn it- and downed it in one burning swallow. He shoved up from the bar, tossed money by the empty glass, and headed outside, tucking a cigarette between his lips and swinging onto his bike.

Merle was on his own tonight. Ain’t no way Daryl was stayin’ in there. He’d rather fork over bail money than sit in that damn bar and listen to that damn song.

 

 

_“Come on, Dixon, we need a song!” she declared, flipping through the records in the crate. Somehow she’d conned him into getting up early on a Sunday morning- the one day out of the week he wasn’t up before the damn sun- and coming out garage sale shopping with her._

_How the woman convinced him to do shit like this was beyond him, but having her clinging to his back and yelling wildly as they sped through curves was almost worth it. Almost._

_“What are ya talkin’ about, girl?” he’d growled at her, paying more attention to the way her fingers looked, slim and quick and strong in black leather half-gloves, than to her words. He knew how those fingers felt in his hair, digging into his arms, ghosting over every inch of him as she laughed breathlessly and made him shiver._

_Hell with other people’s damn junk. He wanted those fingers locked in his shirt while they raced the wind back home; wanted them hooked in the loops of his jeans to pull him closer when they got there._

_“We need a song!” she said again, and gave a squeal of delight when she pulled out the REO Speedwagon record._

_“Speedwagon? Really?” Daryl groaned, but she’d flashed him that look. It was the one that said he was toast before the argument even began. She strolled over to the old man manning the cash register, swinging her hips in those tight jeans. The old man couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and hell, Daryl couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t either._

_‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ was never the same after hearing it while she cried out his name against his lips, her fingers in his hair and legs locked around him._

 

 

He’d wanted to get away from that damn song in the bar, but as soon as he got home, he pulled out a battered album, edges worn, and dropped the 33 into the record player he kept specifically for this.

The needle clicked, and Daryl closed his eyes and was gone.

 

 

 

_“Ya couldn’t have gone for something good? Hell, even Bowie is better’n Speedwagon, girl,” he groused as ‘Gotta Feel More’ started with a roll of drums and guitar._

_“Nope, nope, sorry. Respect the Speedwagon. Cronin can sing, man. That’s all heart,” she argued, tapping her fingers in time to the beat over Daryl’s own heart. His pulse was starting to slow, and he ran his fingers over her bare back as she hummed along to the first verse, head on his chest._

_He sighed, listening to Cronin declare that he'd 'never felt fear till I thought about losing you', and ok. Daryl got that._

 

 

 

Another day, another bar, and another black eye saving Merle from himself.

Another bottle of Jack in brown paper on the table, calling to Daryl even as he staggered under his brother’s almost dead weight.

“Why the hell we still in this hick town, little brother?” Merle slurred at him, high as a kite and drunk as a skunk.

“’Cause we need my job. Broke as shit cause ya keep sendin’ all our cash up your nose, asshole,” Daryl grunted back.

“Aww, c’mmon, lighten up, baby brother! You could use a little nose candy. Get that damn stick out ya ass, been there ever since-”

“Merle, you’d best shut your damn mouth now,” Daryl growled, and Merle snorted but fell silent.

Daryl dumped his brother on the couch, yanked his shoes off, and made sure he was on his side. He headed into the kitchen and grabbed the little trashcan he kept precisely for this purpose, and dropped it on the floor by his brother’s head. He though Merle was already asleep, but his brother’s hand shot out and grabbed Daryl’s arm.

Daryl looked down in surprise and Merle’s eyes- more pupil than anything he was so fuckin’ gone- were open and blearily looking into Daryl’s.

“I’m worried about ya, little brother,” Merle said, surprisingly clearly.

“I ain’t the one ’bout to be passed out and pukin’, idiot,” Daryl muttered.

“Ya ain’t been the same, since. She’s gone, little brother, and you just gotta get yourself over’t,” Merle said, his eyes starting to close, talking right over Daryl.

Daryl snorted, lip curling in a disbelieving sneer. “Sure. Like you got yourself over shit, asshole. Go the fuck to sleep’n try not to choke. Or piss on the damn couch. Tired of cleanin’ it.”

He grabbed the bottle and slammed the door to his room, not even bothering with a glass.

 

 

_He groaned as he woke up and the headache set in instantly. She laughed from somewhere nearby, and then the blissful scent of coffee wafted under his nose._

_He reluctantly opened his eyes and muttered a curse at the stabbing pain of the morning sun. “Why the hell’re the curtains open? Ya tryin’ to kill me?”_

_She giggled and dangled a steaming mug just out of his reach until he sat up and snatched it from her. He eyed her as he gulped down the first two blistering swallows, black and bitter and exactly what this hangover needed._

_She was so damn pretty, smiling at him with her hair all loose and tangled, wearing his shirt from the night before and nothing else. She’d drunk just as much as he had, but the only sign she felt like shit was the slight crease at the center of her forehead, the little bit of tightness at the corners of her eyes. No one else would have noticed, but Daryl knew her. Knew every bit of her face, every expression she made._

_“Why you look so damn good? You should feel like shit same as me,” he grumbled, and she shrugged as she settled onto the edge of the bed with her own mug, one leg tucked gracefully under her and the other foot dangling._

_“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve got a headache and all I want is nachos and donuts, but other than that, I’m fine,” she answered. “Come on, Dixon, Merle’s already texted me four times about when we’re riding out. Blue Ridge Parkway is calling.”_

_The though of taking any curves on his bike made him want to hurl, and she laughed when he told her that._

_“Fine, I’ll drive. You can ride in the bitch seat, then!”_

_“I ain’t nobody’s bitch, woman. Tell that asshole we need two hours, and to bring donuts. We’ll stop for nachos on the way.”_

 

 

 

Seven am had Daryl dragging his ass out of bed, head pounding, stomach churning, and wishing his asshole brother’d care enough about someone besides himself to set up the damn coffee pot before he passed out. He stumbled into the kitchen, got the coffee brewing, and thought about nachos and donuts.

Merle was still passed out, puke on his shirt, when Daryl left for work.

 

 

“Look, Daryl. You’re a hard worker and a good worker, but you show up late more often than not these days, and you’re hungover pretty much every day.”

Daryl scowled at the aging biker who owned the shop, a man named Don who’d been Daryl’s boss since he was eighteen. “Still get shit done, don’t I? C’mon, man, I got my deadbeat brother to support.”

Don sighed. “Yeah, that’s the other thing. Merle’s dealing, Daryl, you know that. You know I can’t afford to have shit like that anywhere around my place.”

“I ain’t dealin’! Don’t touch the shit’n you know it!” Daryl exploded, tossing his screwdriver down into his toolbox with a clang.

“I know. I know. But Merle’s been hanging around here, waiting for you after work. I just can’t have the cops all up in here, Daryl. I’ve got too many strikes against me. Look, you’ve had a rough go of it, since-” Don’s face was gentle and caring and pitying, and Daryl wanted to swing at him immediately.

“Don’t!” he snapped, glaring. “Fine. Ya don’t want Merle around, he won’t be around. Me neither. I quit, asshole.”

 

 

_“Oh my God, Daryl, this is amazing! I can’t believe you built this!” The shock in her voice, the pride in him and what he’d done, was real and evident as she ran her fingers over the seat of the bike Daryl’d been working on in his spare time for the better part of a year. It’d been slow going, but he’d rebuilt the engine and most of the body from the ground up and now it was done._

_“Ya like it?” he asked, and she turned those wide eyes on him._

_“Like it? Dixon, I love it! It’s just unbelievable! This thing was a hunk of rusted junk when you started, and look at it!”_

_“It’s yours,” he told her, arms crossed as her head whipped around to him again._

_“What?” She’d frozen, one hand on the handlebars, her lips slightly parted and red as blood with that lipstick that left her mark on everything her lips touched._

_Her coffee mug. A napkin. A cigarette stolen from Daryl for one long drag and then returned. Daryl’s cheek, and neck, and-_

_He grinned at her. “I built it for ya. It’s yours.”_

_“Oh my God!” she screamed, and her red lips were pressed to his, her legs wrapped around his waist as she threw herself into his arms. He laughed into the kiss and spun around to press her up against the wall with a growl._

 

 

“We’re leavin’, asshole. Pack your shit,” Daryl growled.

Merle groaned. “What the hell ya talkin’ about, baby brother?”

“Got fired. We’re ditchin’ this damn town. Let’s go.”

 

They drifted, town to town, Merle dealing and Daryl doing whatever jobs he could pick up for a week or two. Never more than a month at a time. Daryl was a bouncer, a mechanic, a bartender, a busboy; whatever got them enough cash to feed them and Merle’s addiction, to keep a roof over their heads, gas in their bikes.

Until Merle got into shit or Daryl did, since he was never sober after the roar of the engines cut off anymore. There were bar fights, pool games hustled, women’s hands and mouths and drunken voices in bathrooms and back alleys and cheap motels. Daryl’d stumble out of their arms and into his bed, rising every morning with a throbbing headache and thinking about donuts and nachos.

He never learned their names- the towns' or the women’s- because he’d be gone by tomorrow night.

 

 

_“I wanna see the world someday, Daryl. Imagine it- you, me, Merle. Traveling by bike. I mean, can anything be better than this?” she asked in awe, perched on the seat of her bike and staring out at the view._

_Daryl was looking at the only view that mattered, and yeah, there wasn’t anything better than it. The way her lips curved as she smiled, the way the setting sun reflected in her eyes. The way the leather jacket clung to her shoulders and her hair tumbled over it. The sweep of her lashes against her cheek as she glanced over to see him staring at her and looked down, grinning and blushing._

_God, years together- literal, actual years, since junior year of high school, man- and she blushed under his gaze. How in the hell?_

_“Don’t care if I never leave Georgia again, darlin’, long as you’re with me,” he whispered to her, and her smile amped up to blinding._

_He hadn’t thought it was possible for it to get any bigger._

 

 

 

Daryl was in a bar, drunk, when he got the call.

“Mr. Dixon? Daryl Dixon?”

“Yeah?” he snarled into the phone, four glasses of Jack in and staring down the barrel of a fifth.

“Look, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but you’re the emergency contact listed for Merle Dixon?”

Shit. “Jail or hospital?” Daryl asked bluntly, resting his head on his hand as a rising nausea filled him. If it was jail, Merle could just stew until Daryl sobered up. They were almost out of cash anyway; unless Merle had some stashed Daryl didn’t know about, he wasn’t makin’ bail tonight.

“I’m- I’m afraid he’s in the hospital, sir.”

Fuck.

 

 

_“Look, sir, I’m afraid unless you’re family I am not allowed to release any information except that she’s in surgery right now.”_

_Daryl’s eyes narrowed at the nurse on the desk, and behind the rage and the terror filling his mind with a sort of blank bloodlust he’d never thought he’d feel, he had just enough control not to punch the woman in the face. But his hand clenched into a fist._

_The other hand was shaking._

_“Fine! What about my brother? They were together, right?”_

_“Name?”_

_“I already told ya, Daryl fuckin’-”_

_“His name, sir.”_

_Oh. “Merle. Merle Dixon.”_

 

 

“Mr. Dixon, your brother should make a complete recovery. However, he overdosed. That indicates a serious problem.”

“No shit,” Daryl snarled. “I been dealin’ with his ‘serious problem’ for five years now, asshole.”

The doctor in the white coat didn’t change expressions, despite Daryl’s aggressive tone. “We recommend an in-hospital or other live-in facility rehab. It can work wonders for those in whom the addiction is long-running. May I ask about his history?”

“With the drugs or his damn life?” Daryl snapped, and the doctor paused.

“Both, I suppose.”

 

 

 

_He took Merle home two days later, hopped up on painkillers for the leg that was shattered from the knee down. The docs had put in a metal rod; reassembled all the little pieces as well as they could._

_Merle’d make a full recovery, they said. Gain full mobility of his leg._

_The nurse who pushed his brother’s wheelchair out of the hospital was so damn cheerful about it._

_“Here, man. Let’s get ya inside,” Daryl said, voice flat and wrong even to his own ears._

_Merle grunted and leaned on him and the crutches, and took up residence on the recliner._

_“I’m sorry, little brother,” he whispered as Daryl left the room._

_It wasn’t the only time he’d say it, or the only time Daryl’d ignore it._

 

 

He couldn’t stay in the hospital that night. He just couldn’t. Not with those white walls and the beeping of machinery and the smell of death lingering under the sharp sting of antiseptic.

He’d rather be home doing what he was doing right now- scrubbing vomit and piss and shit out of their extended stay motel floor. Wouldn’t do to have to pay extra for this, since Daryl’d have Merle’s hospital bills to pay now.

 

 

_“I knew this would happen! The day she started hanging out with you Dixons; this was where she was headed! I knew it!” The sobbing woman had her hair, long and thick and beautiful, sprinkled with grey. The man holding the woman back had her eyes, or Daryl supposed she had his._

_Daryl’s eyes burned and his throat hurt and his stomach rolled with the smell of antiseptic and death._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered._

_Like he had with Merle, they ignored him._

_Thing was, they were right. Soon as she started hanging out with the Dixons, she was always gonna end up like this. They were bad news and everyone knew it. Broke everything they touched, as their daddy'd said. Everyone knew they'd be nothing but pain and heartbreak, dragging others down with them. Everyone knew._

_Everyone except her._

 

 

 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Dixon. We thought you’d been called. It happened during the night. He’s in surgery now.”

Daryl’s hands started to shake.

 

 

 

He went home, alone.

On the bike he’d built for her; the bike she’d wrecked out on in the middle of a thunderstorm, saving his damn brother’s drunk ass. The bike Daryl’d rebuilt- again, uselessly, because he couldn't rebuild her- and been riding around for five years now.

He visited her for the first time, standing in the sunshine and looking down at all that was left of her.

 

 

 

“ _Hey. You’re Daryl, right?”_

_He blinked up in the sunlight, cigarette smoke curling from his lips, and stared. “Who the hell’s askin’?”_

_“I am, dumbass,” she laughed, and dropped her backpack on the ground beside the bleachers. “You know you’re the only interesting person in this goddamn place? Tell me you know who Metallica is, and you’re not just wearing that tee for kicks.”_

_Daryl snorted and she leaned over and plucked the cigarette from his lips and popped it between hers._ _“_ _Those things’ll kill ya,” he muttered._

_She grinned and shrugged._

_“Everybody goes somehow. We all need a vice. Maybe this’ll be mine.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm sorry.


End file.
